Ten steps for capturing a Hitman
by breadandchoc
Summary: Nika/47. "The first time Nika kisses 47, she wakes up with a faint headache humming in the temple and the taste of wine on her lips." Pure movieverse, liberal amounts of fluff. Oh dear lord.


**Ten steps for capturing a Hitman **

Because I wanted some Hitman fluff. I know, I went there. It started to veer off into angst near the end (the default genre of this fandom), but I think I manage to cram it back into fluff mode at the last instant. FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. Don't say I didn't warn you. Also UNEDITED, because... well, seriously, is there even anybody reading this?

Lord do I need to actually start writing in fandoms with actual readers still in them. All feedback appreciated (oh rare reader), especially mature ones.

* * *

The first time Nika kisses 47, she wakes up with a faint headache humming in the temple and the taste of wine on her lips. This might be because she has been testing her vineyard's first batch of wines all week; more likely, it is because that was the last thing she'd drank before she asked 47 whether he would like to try some too and then grabbed him by the tie before he could answer and kissed him full on the lips.

The tiny pin-prick on her neck is barely visible, but pride makes Nika cover it up with make-up anyway before she goes to see her head gardener. She hides a grin all day.

/

The second time Nika kisses 47, she gets pushed off the bed, and she lands ungraciously with a yelp and a louder curse. 47 had just sat momentarily on the edge of the bed, taking a break from his usual rope-gun-random-explosives routine he does every time he stays anywhere new, and she had very liberally interpreted it as an invitation. 47 looks down at her from his vantage point and his raised eyebrow says volumes.

"What did you expect?" complains Nika, pulling herself up into a sitting position. She tries not to look like she's sulking. "You take me away to a foreign city and get us a hotel room for with one bed. Hasn't anyone ever talked to you about mixed signals?"

"Nika," 47 says for the hundredth time, "you are here as my _cover_."

She shrugs. "Whatever you want to call it," she mutters.

She is definitely sulking.

/

The third time Nika kisses 47, it's in her largest field of vines and a sunset is just flaring melting oranges over the horizon and it would be _perfect_ and maybe even _romantic_ if 47 hadn't stopped her with a one-handed throat grip.

Okay, so she didn't really kiss him this time. But it was the thought that counted.

"You need to stop this," he says, as Nika rubs her poor neck sullenly. She will have fingerprint bruises in the morning, she is sure. She points this out to 47, quite scathingly, but he merely looks as calm and annoyingly unconcerned as ever.

"That's your own fault," he says, ignoring the fact that HE was the one who had death-choked her just FIVE SECONDS AGO, oh ho ho that fucker – "Perhaps we should continue this lesson another time when you are actually concentrating."

It turns out 47 can be quite scathing as well. She throws the gun at his head which he (annoyingly) catches without flinching, and then Nika stalks off to the house without looking back to see if he is coming.

And she is _still_ counting this as a third time, fuck you very much.

/

The third-and-a-half time (okay, she compromises, okay? Unlike _some_ people, Nika can be _reasonable)_ that Nika kisses 47, she gets to do it properly and in public and he doesn't get to throw her off or drug her afterwards.

It's so brilliant; she can't believe she didn't think of it before.

"Oh," whispers the flight stewardess, "I'm so sorry for interrupting, but did any of you order extra blankets?"

"I did," Nika says. She flickers her eyes down, then up again, as if abashed at being caught when really, she had timed it perfectly. "It's our honeymoon," she confides shyly.

"That's so sweet," the woman gasps. "Congratulations! Oh let me bring you some champagne..." She totters off, all good intentions on stunted heels.

Her newly appointed 'husband' is less happy. "Never do that again," he orders as soon as the stewardess is out of hearing. He actually looks upset.

Nika is still on a high from the quick peck – but still a kiss! Still a kiss! – and her laughter comes bubbling out before she can stop it.

"But I did it for our cover, 'darling'..." she starts wickedly, but 47 grabs her by her arm and the mix of surprise and pain cuts her off.

"If you do that again, Nika," her killer says quietly, "I will never take you out again. Ever."

He lets go of her arm. His eyes stay on hers, dark and intense and grim. Nika is the first to look down.

But not for long.

"You said 'take me out'," she says. She dares a glance upwards, tries on a smile. "Like a date."

47 sighs. The tension goes out of his body with it. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Nika?"

"Yes?"

"Go to sleep."

She does, but only after they have the champagne. 47 shakes his head, and gives his to her.

/

The fifth time (the last time counts as one and a half times because she didn't get drugged etc, _ha_) that Nika kisses 47, she is drunk and bitter and she doesn't expect to see him at all. He never usually visits her more than twice a month, and certainly not at night – or perhaps he does, and has just never told her.

At first she thinks he's just a phantom of her imagination, summoned by her own loneliness to keep her company, and so she hums along with the soft sad music in the background and leans her cheek against his chest and tries to sway with him. He's not a very good sway-er. Even in her imagination, he's still being difficult, Nika thinks dreamily. Typical.

Her difficult phantom takes the bottle from her hand carefully. "Nika," it asks, "why are you crying?"

"Cos it's my day," she mumbles.

"It's your birthday?"

"No, you stupid man." She hiccups, tries to hit his chest and misses, a feat in itself considering that she is right next to him. "Whores don't have birthdays. This is the day I was... I was first sold."

Phantom 47 lifts her chin. For a phantom, or maybe because it is a phantom, he is very gentle. He is saying something but she is too distracted, he is so close; she leans up on tip-toe, quick as a dagger, and then she is kissing him, soft and salt-stained and chaste. And it is only for the briefest of brief moments, but for a moment, 47 doesn't pull away:_ he lets her_. It is enough to shake Nika's world a little. It is enough to (almost) sober her up.

"You're here?" she says dumbly.

"I don't have a birthday either," he might have said, or perhaps he doesn't – she can't be sure. Everything is a wine-edged blur. All Nika knows is that he must have half-dragged, half-lead her to her bedroom and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed. She knows this because she wakes up in the morning with a crick in her neck. It takes a while for her to remember that moment of almost-letting, and when she does, it makes the hangover so much more bearable.

/

The sixth time Nika kisses 47, he is trying to teach her how to use a gun again and as usual, failing miserably. Nika would like to point out this _47_ is the one who is failing, NOT her. Because who is the one who is the goddamned professional killer? That's right. And who is the one who is responsible for passing on these skills in an understandable and realistic way? That's right again.

NOT HER.

"Aim at your target, don't close your eyes when you pull the trigger, and shoot," 47 repeats. Nika is sure he has perfected his patient monotone just to annoy her.

She grits her teeth _and does exactly what he says _and misses the target completely. This would be easier to bear if the target was a small rusty can several hundred feet away; instead, 47 had thoughtfully and, Nika thinks sourly, _insultingly_ chosen a tree. To be specific, a rather large tree trunk.

So far the only dent made in it is from 47's demonstration when she had argued that the tree must be just too damned far. He hadn't even looked at the trunk when he shot it, perfectly centred. It had not helped Nika's temper at all.

47 picks up the gun she had thrown to the ground and hands it to her silently. She can hear him reprimanding her in her head anyway; she's heard it so many times it has become an automatic soundtrack – yes, this can jam the gun; yes, my life may depend on it one day; yes, yes, fucking yes, shut up and kiss me.

"Oh shut up," Nika snaps, despite the fact that 47 had said nothing; "This is a goddamned waste of time anyway. I've seen you fight, I won't stand a chance against one of you guys. Why don't I stick to what I know and you stick to what you know?"

"If I don't get to you in time, even delaying your attacker by a few seconds may save your life." He looks annoyed. "You have to at least learn to how to shoot a still object, Nika-"

She doesn't get to do more than brush her lips against his this time, but it's still _contact_.

47 jerks his head back but she doesn't let go of his blood-red tie and so he doesn't get very far when he tries to step back. She supposes he could have pulled back anyway – god knows she won't be able to stop him – but that would mean she would fall on him and so he stands still, looking as harassed and trapped. Serves the idiot right.

"See?" Nika licks her suddenly dry lips. 47 tries to look away. "Looks like you fail my class too. Can't even handle a simple kiss."

She lets go of his tie. 47 steps back immediately. For a moment it looks like he is going to retort, but then he stops himself, visibly swallows a sigh and takes her gun to recheck it.

"If you keep throwing the gun," he says with heavy resignation, "it might jam the chamber-"

He doesn't say anything about more about it. He doesn't even try to argue. Nika takes it as a small victory and in return, actually tries to aim for the rest of the morning.

She still can't hit the damned target though.

/

The seventh time Nika kisses 47, he doesn't protest, doesn't make a biting comment, doesn't do anything but push her away and tell her she should go get her things because the plane is leaving in five hours and the airport is a four and a half hour drive away.

"I've always wanted to go to Prague," Nika repeats, trying to decipher his usual calm-iron expression. "Thank you."

"You're coming as a cover," 47 repeats automatically. "But you're welcome. Get your things."

That was different, Nika thinks as she climbs the stairs. But wasn't that what she was going for all along: acceptance? Even if it felt a lot more like indifference…

Nika touches her mouth absently, then catches herself and picks up her bag. Her essentials are already neatly packed in it; 47 once told her she should always be able to leave under ten seconds with any necessities and valuables in hand. Despite what he thinks, she does listen to what he says. Just before she turns off the light, she catches a flash in the mirror.

The woman in the mirror looks worried.

/

The eighth time Nika kisses 47, they have just checked into their hotel room and 47 is undoing his tie. She hadn't dared to try it during the flight, not after that last time, and she hadn't dared to do it in public for the same reason.

47 flinches away at the last second but aside from a flicker of irritation crossing his face, he looks as dispassionate as ever when she pulls back. He pulls off his tie.

"Take your shower," he tells her. "I'm going to set the place up." He takes his bag of equipment and leaves the room, presumably to place his various weapons and explosives around the hotel.

In the bathroom, the woman in the mirror stares back at Nika. Her hand shakes when she reapplies her eyeliner, the need to cover herself up surfacing instinctively with her anxiety. The dark smear gives her a comically tragic look, like a weeping clown. Nika stares, then strips her clothes, inspects her body with a professional eye. Perhaps he prefers curvier women. Perhaps she is moving too quickly, pushing too hard.

He had barely noticed her at all.

/

The ninth time Nika kisses 47, it is a mistake. Some people may have argued that all the previous times were mistakes too, since her hitman has hardly reciprocated, but Nika has a finer sense about these things. She kisses him, he reacts forcefully, he doesn't hit or leave her. Passion is passion, whatever the form it comes in; Nika just has to mold it patiently till it became the kind that she's been waiting for.

This is a problem if she has been deluding herself that there was actually passion to begin with. This is a problem if 47 has come to think of her... attempts as mere quirks, irritating and moderately tolerable and by implication, a problem that he can deal with swiftly it becomes intolerable.

This is a problem.

When Nika wakes, the room is swathed in grey shadows and the only light comes faintly from open door, where 47 has left the lights on in the main room. There is an unpleasant moment of déjà vu: he had done this to her once in another hotel room, a lifetime ago, just after she had tried to seduce him with a red silk dress and a knowing smirk. He had even weakened briefly during the course of it – she remembers his hands coming up to slide slowly up her thigh, hungry and tentative, before drawing back again as if burnt. It is a memory that Nika has clung on to desperately for the last few months. It had given her hope that…

He hadn't hesitated this time.

Nika wraps the sheets around her and hugs herself. Her neck doesn't hurt, but the after-effects of the drug always makes her groggy, as if a prelude to a migraine. She thinks numbly, _I thought I was past this._ She thinks, _maybe I never will be._

Probably she should stay awake and wait up for him. Tell him when he comes back that alright, she gets it, he's not interested, ok. No need for any more drugged needles, we can stay… whatever the hell we are. Tell him, above all, not to leave her over this, because he's all she has. Even the vineyard is really his; she can't think of it without thinking of him.

Nika knows she should stay awake to do some damage control, but she can't. The drug is still heavy in her head and there is something heavier pressing down against her chest. She rolls over, covers her head with the sheets, and shuts her eyes to the world. She pretends that nothing hurts.

/

The tenth time…

Well. There is no tenth time, really.

She wakes up for the second time that night and finds him sitting on her side of the bed. He has left the bedroom door wide open when he came in, and there is just enough light that Nika can see how tired he looks. The air stinks of rich copper and burnt powder.

"Are you hurt?" She sits up. The thought terrifies her, and then she sees the dark patches staining his shirt. "Oh god, you're bleeding-"

"It's not mine."

"Oh." There is a lot of blood. Nika tries to look away, but…

There is a lot of blood.

She hesitates, then reaches out, touches him on the damp arm of his suit lightly. He isn't shaking at all. She wonders why she thought he might be.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm not hurt."

"I know." She thinks that if he was, he might sound less deadened. "But are you alright?"

His head turns; 47 looks at her. In the darkness, she can't read his expression.

"I'm fine," he says finally. His tone is even. He gets up and moves towards the door.

"Wait," Nika calls out. 47 stops at the doorway but doesn't look back. Nika takes a breath and says it before she loses her nerve: "Why don't you sleep here tonight? The bed's more comfortable than a chair and it's big enough for the two of us. I won't try anything, I promise."

When he doesn't say anything, she repeats, softer, "I promise."

47 stands at the doorway a moment longer, then his silhouette is gone. After a while, Nika hears the shower.

She lies back in the dark and thinks of the pink of dead men's blood swirling down into the drain.

He takes a little longer than usual, and when he comes back, he no longer smells like death but clean hotel soap. He is wearing a white singlet of some sort, and his usual dark pants. Even after all these months, Nika has never really seen him in anything more than variations of his suit: with red tie, without tie; with black jacket, without black jacket. The suit had made him look lean; without the crisp white long-sleeves of his shirt to cover his muscles, even his shadow looks larger somehow.

47 narrows the door gap so that only a thin shift of amber light falls across the floor of the room. There is a dip in the bed, and then Nika's eyes adjust and she sees him lying on top of the sheets, just an arm's length away from her. She can't tell if his eyes are closed or not. After long beats of silence, she wonders if he's already sleeping.

"What?"

Fuck. So not sleeping then.

"Nothing," she says quickly.

More night silence. Then,

"Nika, if you're going to keep staring at me all night, I am going to move."

"You can't even see me," she complains automatically. She is pretty sure he can't; _she_ can barely see the outline of his face. Nika moves noisily and pointedly until she's lying flat on her back like him anyway. Then she watches him out of the corner of her eye.

The silence returns in full, deafening force.

Nika wants to ask _what happened?_ She wants to say _it's okay if you don't like what you do sometimes_ and _you need to get out of this life _and _talk to me, you cold motherfucker, or nothing will _ever_ change. _But she doesn't. Because Nika knows better. Because Nika has been brought up as a whore so long that like 47, she is a professional at heart too, if no longer in action, and she knows when to shut up about certain things.

So instead she says to the ceiling, "I finally did it."

A pause.

Nika continues, as if oblivious to the reminder of death still in the air, "That goddamn tree. I hit it. Three times, on the same day. You can see the holes when you come see me next."

47 doesn't answer her, but the silence changes subtly, loses its quality of being like a breath held in. She knows he is listening. That is encouragement enough.

She goes about trivial things, the little unremarkable details that make up her new life. Simple and domestic. Curses how long it took for her to finally aim without – _fine_, so she'll admit she did do that– wincing and closing her eyes when she pulled the trigger. How the new wines are doing quite well in the first market sales for a label with a new owner – well, that's what old Alexei keeps trying to tell her anyway, she was just pissed off that the whole market seemed to be laughing at her just because she was _so young_ and a _woman_ and _dressed like a city girl_ and no, before you ask, she is _not _going to stop wearing her 'impractical' clothes because there are no impractical clothes or shoes, there are only _pretty ones_. And you won't believe how hard it is to get even goddamned make-up up there – and no, the day she stops wearing mascara is the day _you_ starts wearing jeans and t-shirts. ...Though maybe it's because of how different she looks that none of her neighbours ever want to talk to her. Only Alexei is kind and she thinks that's because she reminds him of his own city daughter... But that's fine, it's not like Nika Boronia has never been self-sufficient with her own company before; in her experience, it's _better_ than being forced to entertain other people. She is used to being alone. And it can be so beautiful in the vine fields sometimes, when the sky is just so clear and blue, and there's no one allowed to shout at her. Everything is just ordinary and quiet and _right_, and sometimes she thinks that even one perfect moment like this makes up for everything she has never had in her life; and she almost forgets what it used to be like...

Nika stops. There is an unexpected ache in her chest and a hot wetness in her eyes. It's silly to still feel like this when the vineyard has been hers for months now, but sometimes it still feels like a dream to her.

Beside her, she can no longer feel 47 humming with tension.

His voice comes very quietly in the darkness. "I'm glad you're adjusting well, Nika," he says and damn the man, he actually sounds like he means it. He's not making it easier for her at all. But for an instant, in that odd, gentle tone, Nika has a flash of insight that maybe, _maybe _this is why he sticks around even when he doesn't have to. That maybe even if he can't imagine a life other than his, 47 still needs to know that it's possible. That a whore can be more than a whore. That a person can change. That maybe, just maybe, she is his perfect moment in the vineyard.

Maybe she should stop being so selfish.

Nika shifts, turns on her side. It brings her closer to 47, so that she can almost feel his warmth next to her arm. 47 tilts his head slightly, looks at her.

"I've decided," she says lightly, and her voice is steady_, steady_, "That I'm going to stop... ah..." She falters.

"Attacking me," 47 says dryly.

"Educating you," Nika corrects with great dignity. She adds, quieter, "I'm sorry."

She doesn't explain what for. She doesn't thinks she has to.

47 says nothing for a moment. Nika wishes she could see his face.

"That's probably for the best," he says finally, calmly. "I prefer not to get distracted before an assignment."

"No, not only then," Nika says unthinkingly. "I mean from now – oh."

He is still watching her, just a word and breath away. She thinks,_ maybe he assumed I was only talking about tonight. _She thinks, _but he never assumes anything_. She thinks, _did he just...?_

He is still watching her.

Nika hesitates. Then she takes her heart between her teeth and makes up her mind.

"How about after?" she says, and maybe her voice is a little less steady this time, but Nika is too distracted in raising herself on her elbows and leaning over to care. Too distracted in how close and real he is, his arm pressed warm against hers and his dark eyes holding hers. Too distracted in how he isn't moving away.

At the last moment, disbelief makes her pause, their foreheads nearly touching. "Did you-" she starts uncertainly, but then she really is far too distracted to continue.

/

The tenth time Nika kisses 47...

Well. Like she said, there is no tenth time, really.

But.

The first time 47 kisses Nika, it takes a while before she remembers to breathe.


End file.
